Human, Shmuman
by Larahna Steadyblade
Summary: Ford loves his brother - no matter what he looks like. Sequel to A Lair Shared is Not so Cold.


A/N: WARNING: slight mentions of blood/gore. Nothing graphic, but definitely there.

* * *

He hadn't noticed at first.

He'd been pouring through Stanford's scrolls and accidentally torn one of them. He cursed at himself – these were important! There was no other way to reopen the door; he _had_ to be careful or he would never get Sixer back.

The scrolls were old and fragile, that was all. He just had to be more careful.

The subtle changes became harder to ignore over time. His nails became tougher to trim until he gave up trying to keep them in check entirely. He had always been strong, but never crack-a-boulder-when-he-punched-it strong. He couldn't ignore it when his sleeves and pant legs were too short for his limbs, or when suddenly the shoes that had fit for ten years were too small.

His back ached constantly. He found himself starting to crawl around on all fours – it alleviated the pain some, even if it struck a blow to his already weakening sense of humanity. He'd always had a knack for finding treasure, but he could almost smell it now. The brand on his shoulder kept burning. He tried to feel it, but found he could no longer reach over his shoulder. It was probably for the best – his nails were rock-hard by now, and sharp to boot. He would probably aggravate it further by touching it.

He had to accept something was up when he was awoken in the middle of the night by his own scream of pain. It felt like someone was carving his back to pieces. He stood on his hands and knees and arched his back…

He felt something slice through the skin of his back and heard a whoosh of air, then finally the pain dulled. He looked back and saw the wings dripping with blood, briefly wondering what was in the cave with him before he realized they were coming out of his back. The symbol Ford had branded into him stared at him from the back of his right wing, bright and angry against the gray skin.

A low wail escaped him. He could no longer pretend that his back hurt because he'd been hunched over a desk. Couldn't pretend his clothes didn't fit because they were falling apart. Couldn't pretend that if he kept his head down and just got the door open everything would be fine. He was a monster.

A freak.

He almost laughed at the thought. Ford wasn't the weirder twin anymore.

His skin hardened over the following days before forming scales. His claws sharpened further. His knees stopped bending, then started bending backwards. His neck elongated, and one morning he woke up to a stubby little tail that quickly grew to counterbalance his neck and head.

It hurt. Everything ached during every waking moment. He could barely move some days, but he couldn't stop working. Every minute he wasted feeling sorry for himself was a minute Ford was trapped, stuck behind a door that wouldn't open no matter how hard he pulled.

When the pain did keep him from moving, he wondered what it was like behind the door. He'd only gotten a small glimpse passed the doorframe – it looked dark. Was it a dangerous world? Was it huge and empty? Was it a tiny room, tight and claustrophobic?

Was Ford beating on the door right then, begging Stanley to let him out?

He kept working.

He pushed himself every day, working long into the night, passing out, and going right back to work as soon as he woke up. As time passed, he noticed that he could stay up later and woke earlier – he needed only a few hours of sleep every few days. Good. He could work longer.

One day after returning to the cave from a hunt – he had tried to keep working as long as possible, but he _did_ need to eat occasionally – he realized he wasn't in pain anymore. The brand on his wing didn't sting, none of his joints groaned, and his back had finally stopped aching. He was ecstatic at first.

Then he collapsed, sobbing.

It was over. The pain had been caused by his beastly transformation, and it had finally stopped.

He wasn't human anymore. Every trace of what he had been was gone. The only person who knew _who_ he was was trapped behind a magical door – and would he even recognize Stan anymore? He didn't have any of his human traits anymore. Was he even himself anymore?

Could he even go by Stan now?

He shook his head, unable to wipe the tears from his eyes. It didn't _matter_ who or what he was now. All that mattered was getting Ford back.

It had already been two years. He needed to get back to work.

* * *

"How long did it take?"

Stan blinked up at Ford, map before him forgotten for the moment. "What are you talkin' about, Poindexter?"

The nerd wasn't looking at him, fiddling with his pen. "The transformation," he finally said. "You were still human when I–" He stopped, taking a deep, steadying breath. "How long did it take for you to fully change into a dragon?"

Stan scratched the back of his head. Many of his memories had returned, but memories of time he spent alone still blurred or eluded him entirely. "Dunno. Maybe a year? Two?"

Ford took a long, slow inhale.

"It's not your fault, Sixer," Stan said as his twin opened his mouth, cutting him off. "You had no idea it would turn me into a monster." Ford let out a pained noise, but Stan kept talking. "Besides, you're the one who turned me back, so even if it was your fault, you've made up for it."

Silence filled the air, and Stan hoped Ford had heard enough.

"Did it hurt?"

Stan sighed. No such luck.

"What do you want from me, Ford? If I say no you're not gonna believe me, and if I say yes you're gonna blame yourself." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Just drop it, bro."

"Please, Stan," Ford begged, "please tell me. I keep–" His voice cracked, but he pressed on. "I keep having nightmares about it. I keep- keep seeing you on… on the ground, c-covered in blood…"

"Hey, hey," Stan said, grabbing Ford and pulling him into a hug. The elder twin cried into his brother's shoulder as Stan shushed him softly. They just held each other for a while until Ford's cries dropped to whimpers. Stan sighed again, not releasing his twin or ceasing to rub comforting circles into his back. "Yeah it hurt."

Ford stiffened but didn't interrupt or pull away. Stan took it as a plea to continue. The more he thought about the memories, the more they came back to him. He described the slow process of completely transforming from a human into a dragon. He wanted to leave out a few of the darker details, but knowing Sixer would keep beating himself up until he knew the whole situation, he explained everything. The pain and confusion.

"I'm sorry," Ford said in a quiet voice when Stan finished his story. He pulled away and wiped his tears before looking his brother square in the face. "I'm so sorry, Stanley. You never should have had to pay for my mistakes." His gaze dropped. "Any of my mistakes…"

"No, none of that," Stan said with a gentle shove to Ford's shoulder. "You had no idea what that symbol would do. Sure, you probably should have been a little more skeptical of a floating triangle, but he tricked you. I don't blame you for any of it."

"But you should!" Ford cried as he stood abruptly. He paced back and forth, hands clamped firmly behind his back. "I hurt you! I took away any opportunity you might have had to go home! I…" He collapsed back onto the box he'd been propped on, energy spent from his outburst. He swallowed as tears formed in his eyes again. "I ruined your life."

Stan wasn't sure what to say at first. How could he convince his brother to stop blaming himself?

"Ford." The older brother didn't react to his name at all – he appeared entirely lost in thought. "Stanford," Stan called, and Ford looked up after a moment. Stan waited until their eyes were locked before continuing. "You didn't ruin my life. You gave me a reason to stay put for 30 years." He threw his hands in the air. "Moses, Poindexter, you gave me something to work toward! I hate that you were trapped for so long, but I wouldn't have left you for anything." He hesitated for a beat, then pressed on. "It's not like I had much of a life before, anyway."

Neither spoke for a few minutes. The silence ate at Stan – he never had been a fan of the quiet.

"Did you ever hate me?" Ford looked so young curled in on himself. "When you were hurting…"

"No," Stan replied. He grabbed Ford's hand and squeezed it. Six fingers squeezed back. "The pain meant I was still a little human. It was scarier when everything stopped hurting."

Ford said nothing, but the way his eyes stared determinedly at nothing told Stan he was working through a thought. He stayed quiet, the rocking of the boat soothing, as he rubbed his thumb back and forth across Ford's hand. After several minutes, Ford leaned back against Stan's side.

"I have more questions, but I suppose that's enough information for now."

Stan knew his twin wasn't trying to guilt more information out of him, but a twinge of irritation came up anyway. He glared at the deck between his feet. Part of him was happy Ford had finally dropped the subject, but part of him wanted to assuage his brother's fears and doubts. After a moment, he turned to Ford with a grumble.

"What do you want to know?"

A moment of quiet, then, "Did you ever think about what our reunion would be like if you got the door open?"

"You mean _when_ I got the door open," Stan declared with a wide grin, elbowing Ford in the ribs and getting a short laugh for his trouble. "I knew I'd get you back, no matter what." Just as quickly as it had appeared, Stan felt the boisterous mask slip off, leaving the numbness behind. "Part of… Part of me wanted to believe you'd be happy to see me. That we'd hug it out, or somethin' sappy like that. Part of me knew that was never gonna happen and you'd probably be real mad at me." He let out a bark of laughter; a rough, quick sound with no happiness. "Guess I got a brain up here after all," he said with a tap to his temple. He felt Ford shift next to him and rushed to get the last bit out before his brother could interrupt. "The rest of me… Well, the rest of me wondered if you would even think of me as your brother anymore. Y'know, dragon and all." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. "Dragons can't really be family with humans, and all."

The waves continued lapping against the side of their boat. The wind danced along, stroking Stan's face with her cool fingers and making his wish he'd worn the scarf Mabel had made him. It was down below deck; he could go get it and warm up. He wanted to, but the way Ford had gone so still froze his feet to the deck where they rested.

"You didn't stop being Stan just because you weren't human."

The nerd was looking at him so determinedly that he wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Neither seemed really appropriate at the moment.

"Ley."

Ford's voice had gone all soft, and suddenly Stan found it hard to see. He swiped roughly at his face, and Ford snagged his hand, pulling together with the other so all four of their hands were together.

"You're still Stanley Pines, no matter what you look like."

The tears starting falling, but with Ford holding both of his hands there was nothing he could do about them. They felt like drops of ice rolling down his cheeks in the cold air.

"I was a monster," he choked out. "A… a freak." He lowered his head as the tears continued to fall. "I was a terrible brother, and I deserved everything I got for being so horrible."

"You were not a monster, and you aren't one now." Ford's voice remained gentle but took on a firm note behind the easy lilt. "You are _not_ a terrible brother – you're better than I ever was, and better than I deserve. You absolutely did not deserve what happened to you… What I did to you." Ford's voice creaked, and Stan had to look up.

His face was so pained. He needed Stan to believe him; that much was obvious, but he wasn't sure how to make that happen.

"You're not a freak, either," Ford continued. He laughed breathlessly, obviously holding back his own tears. "You're my knucklehead of a brother – human or dragon."

He still wasn't sure he believed it, but with Ford so certain, maybe one day he could.

He'd rather be a freak of a brother than a lonely normal guy, anyway.

* * *

A/N:

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